


in waters unknown;

by allonsysouffle



Category: Easy Allies RPF
Genre: Genderfluid Character, Multi, Pining, a lot of fighting, a smattering of anxiety and some discussion of suicide, and cities! cities! so many cities!, backpacking AU, commitment issues, sweet youths running about europe like they own the damn continent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysouffle/pseuds/allonsysouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“So where are we going, then?”</p>
  <p><i>Ugh.</i> “Madrid.”</p>
  <p>“Awesome! Why?”</p>
  <p>“Has anyone ever told you that you have the energy of an idiotic golden retriever, Huber?”</p>
  <p>“That’s a new one, actually.”</p>
  <p>“And the same blatant disrespect for personal boundaries, I see.”</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. ADRIFT;

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is finalbosman, twitter is saltwaterrayne
> 
> guys please help me im in hinckber hell and i cant get OUT
> 
> part 2 coming sooner than you'd think

“Congratulations! 

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Places!

You’re off and away!”

- _Oh, the Places You’ll Go!,_ Dr. Seuss

  

**1; ADRIFT**

 

 

**TOLEDO**

The beer tastes of honey and bitter, bitter loneliness.

Ian Hinck sits under a red-and-white umbrella at a cafe in Toledo, Spain, and contemplates how difficult it would be to steal a car and drive it into the Tagus River. 

Backpacking was supposed to be his _escape_ , goddamnit. A three-month soul-search, completely off the grid, plenty time for him to write and grow and think about what he wants to do with his life. 

Except he’s two weeks in and lonely as all hell and absolutely nothing interesting has happened. 

Sure, he’s seen Morocco and Portugal and some of Spain. Sure, he’s met a couple of interesting people along the way- the tiny British ukulele player in Lisbon and the raggedy haunted girl in Gilbratar come to mind. And _sure_ , travelling alone sounded like a good idea at the time, but now all he really feels is an undeniable and overwhelming apathy.

He takes a sip of his beer and lets the dusk wind tousle his hair. It’s growing too long- he should really buzz the sides again. Or dye it. Or shave it all off. 

At least Toledo is beautiful company. The river cuts a sharp arc around the city, which is a twisting variety of antique villas and old castles piled atop a ridge. The early summer sunsets are pink and yellow and sweet, and faded, like apricots and candy hearts and old memories. 

He’s thinking about the possibility of buying more beer so he can drink himself to death when a stranger sits himself down across from him.

“How’s it going?”

Ian damn near jumps out of his own skin. He swivels around to face a man crosslegged on the chair opposite him, backpack thrown under the table haphazardly.

He’s American. “You’re American.” 

“Yeah, so are you. We should be friends!” He’s light-haired and lanky and square-jawed and effortlessly sunny. His smile is irritatingly bright.

“I-” Ian stops. Looks the guy right in the eyes. “The hell are you even doing?”

The guy winces. “Um, talking?”

“Well, stop it.”

He does. He whistles something tuneless and stares out at the river. Then he smiles. “I’m Michael P. Huber. What’s your name?”

Ian chooses to ignore him. He drains the last dregs of his beer and calls the waiter over to get the bill. Michael P. Huber crosses his arms and continues to smile somewhat eerily at him. 

“Are you backpacking too?” Michael P. Huber asks, mouth running a mile a minute, “because _dude_. Europe is so freaking cool! Of course I’m super alone and stuff, but whatever, right? I’m from LA. It’s nice to be in a place that’s got actual breathable air for once! Did you know this city is famous for the production of bladed weapons? Kinda got that Assassin’s Creed vibe going on-”

“Michael,” says Ian, “do you ever stop talking?”

He frowns. “It’s Huber, actually. No one uses my first name. And no, not really?”

“Then why would you introduce yourself as Mich- you know what? Never mind,” Ian says. “Huber, we’re done here. So, uh, skedaddle, alright?”

“Nope,” Huber states simply. He throws down a couple of bills. “I’m paying for your drink in exchange for some quality conversation.”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “I’m not a call girl. You can’t just _pay_ for my obviously superior company.”

“Well, we’re talking, aren’t we?” Huber grins. “We’re totally gonna be best friends.”

“Uh _-_ ”

“So, where are you headed?”

Ian sighs and doesn’t roll his eyes, though he really, really wants to. “Everywhere. Nowhere. What does it matter?”

“Ooh, we’ve got a regular Robert Frost over here. But seriously, where are you headed?”

“Bite me.” Ian gets up and shoulders his pack. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mister Michael P. Huber, I have a train to catch.”

“Where, though?”

“Shut up.” Ian doesn’t even look behind him as he saunters off down the sidewalk, tourist map crumpled in his hand.

Huber catches up to him in no time. “You’re being _prickly_ , my man!”

“Stop following me.”

“Okay.”

Huber stops following him. He waits on his tiptoes for a couple of seconds as Ian marches towards the train station. 

And then he runs after him. Again. “Hey! Wait! Sorry, what’s your name?”

Ian’s lip curls as he turns to watch Huber stride purposefully toward him, panting and covered in sweat. “Screw off.”

“That’s a really weird name,” says Huber. “Do your parents hate you or something?”

Ian’s jaw sets. “Listen, dude. Huber. Whatever. I’m gonna need you to chase after a different tourist, okay?”

“Are you running from them? Your parents, I mean.” Huber’s eyes are calculating and narrowed. Ian’s pack feels very heavy all of a sudden.

“…Ian,” he mutters, turning away and starting back down the path. “My name’s Ian. Hinck. And if we’re going to travel together I would suggest that you stay the hell out of my personal life, thank you very much.”

Huber’s mouth falls open in an easy laugh, sunlit and starstruck. “Ian Hinck. Okay. Great. Well, you don’t really look like an Ian, you know?” 

“What do I look like, then?”

Huber frowns. “Maybe, like, a Hunter? Or an Elijah.”

“Ew.”

He slings an arm around Ian’s shoulder. Ian barely resists the urge to shrug him off. “So where are we going, then?”

_Ugh._ “Madrid.”

“Awesome! Why?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the energy of an idiotic golden retriever, Huber?”

“That’s a new one, actually.”

“And the same blatant disrespect for personal boundaries, I see.”

“Do you like dogs, Ian? I love dogs.”

“Oh my god, are you _always_ like this?”

 

* * *

 

**MADRID**

Michael P. Huber really doesn’t ever stop talking. It’s actually a little impressive. And more than a little infuriating.

He’s all “What’s your favourite colour?” ( _“Peach.”_ ) and “Do you have any pets?” ( _“No, unless we count you, Huber, you excitable puppy.”_ ) and “Hey, wanna hear about the time I almost died trying to beat my high score on Flappy Bird?” ( _“Not particularly.”_ ) and “What the hell even brought you to Europe?”

They’re on the thirty-minute late-night train ride to Madrid (thankfully, both of them thought to buy three-month Eurail passes) and the question makes Ian laugh.

“That’s a long story, Huber,” is all he says. 

Huber frowns. “I’ll go first, then,” he starts. “Let’s see. So I’m eighteen, I lived just out of LA, got pretty okay grades, right? So my parents want me to go to college. Which is fine, yeah, that’d be cool. Got accepted into a couple smaller ones. But I don’t think I’m ready, y’know? _College_.” He fakes a shiver. “Kinda scary. So I heard about doing a gap year, it’s sort of a European thing, I think? I had some money saved up from my job at Gamestop- never work at Gamestop, _seriously_ \- and just sort of… took off. Packed up. Told my parents I was disappearing for a while and didn’t stop to explain.”

“Escaping from responsibility, huh.”

“Yeah,” Huber admits. “Yeah, I think it was that. Also, I’m eighteen. I think I have the right to do what I want for a while.”

“Right,” says Ian. “So, college- what did you want to go into?”

Huber sighs. “No idea. Isn’t is crazy? They think we know exactly where we want our lives to be like when we’re still kids. I was thinking journalism, maybe, but- ah, I don’t know.” He studies Ian closely. “What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Why Europe,” Huber repeats. “Why’d you leave?”

“Sorry,” Ian shrugs, “but you have to be a Level Nine Friend to unlock my frankly tragic backstory.” He says it with a laugh on his lips, but he’s not smiling.

Huber makes a sound of protest. “Hey! I told you mine, you can’t tell me yours? This friendship is terrible. Can I get a refund?”

“You chose this, now you gotta deal with the consequences of sitting down at a table next to a complete stranger with floppy hair that writes poetry.”

Huber’s eyes go wide. “You write poetry? Whoa! That’s really cool.”

“Yeah, don’t expect a reading,” says Ian dryly. “Anyway. Madrid sounds interesti-”

Huber interrupts with a cough. “Um, no, dude, you still haven’t told me anything about your life.”

“For a reason,” Ian mutters. He doesn’t mean to sound aggressive, but the words come out icy. “Look, Huber. I like you. But I’m not gonna tell my entire life story to a complete stranger, thank you very much.”

Huber strokes his chin. “Give me ten questions.”

“Excuse me?”

“I ask ten questions, and in return for your ten answers, I pay for our next ten meals.”

Ian narrows his eyes. He can’t exactly complain about free food. “Exactly how much money did you get from working at Gamestop?”

“Enough to get a read on you.” Huber is smug in the fluorescent lights of the train. 

“Fair play,” says Ian, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Okay. Go on.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen. Kind of a waste of a question, I probably would’ve given you that one.”

“Where are you from?”

“The depths of hell.”

Huber sighs through his nose. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m not clear on the question,” Ian responds. “Chicago, I guess. That’s where I lived last.”

He seems satisfied. “Do you have any nicknames?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What’s your biggest pet peeve?”

“Overexcitable jerks that genuinely enjoy interrogating innocent people such as me when they barely even know them.”

“Was that-?”

“No, I wasn’t being serious. Also, _that_ just counted as your fifth question. Sorry.”

“That was kind of nit-picky, Ian.”

He smirks. He didn’t think he would be able to genuinely frustrate someone as stupidly positive as Michael P. Huber. “Yes, yes it was.”

“Ugh, fine. What is the reason, the direct reason, that you decided to travel to Europe?”

Ian glares at him. “Okay, you got me. Uh, to escape?” he wonders aloud. “And to get inspiration? I don’t know-”

“I think you do know, actually,” says Huber, looking out the window. “But I’ll take it. _Escape and inspiration._ Hm. Alright, favourite video game.”

“Er, Bloodborne?”

Huber nods appreciatively. “Good choice. Are you gay?”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“What, what is it?”

Ian leans backwards, eyes a little too wide. “Huber. _Huber, what the_ \- I just. I didn’t. Expect that?”

“I was wondering, you know, because of the…well…” He gestures to Ian’s general person.

“Hilarious.” To be fair, it kind of is hilarious, and half-true, but Ian refuses to acknowledge that.

“I mean. Are you, though?”

Ian just shrugs non-committally. Huber accepts this as an answer.

“What’s the best line of poetry you have ever written, then, O’ Brilliant and Talented and Sort-Of-Maybe-Gay One?”

Ian frowns. “Do you seriously think I’m conceited enough to memorize my own poems?”

“Kind of?”

“Shut up,” Ian says, grinning. “No, but really, I don’t know.”

“Okay, different angle,” Huber tries, “what’s your proudest piece?”

“A slam poem I wrote two years ago called _‘Goodnight, Jennie June’_. Never performed.”

“I… I don’t get the title.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The train car is uncomfortably silent. Huber is looking down at his hands. Finally, he leans back in his seat. “Okay. Last question. What is your biggest secret?”

Ian has to laugh. “Huber. That’s not- you can’t just ask that question.”

“Why not?” He seems genuinely confused. “I’ll tell you mine if you want.”

“I don’t,” Ian says, exasperated. “I don’t want to know your biggest secret. I don’t want you to know mine, either, because it’s my _biggest fucking secret_. That’s the whole point of it- no one else _knows_.”

“Oh,” says Huber. “Uh, yeah. You’re right. Sorry about that.”

The train makes a sound that sounds like a cross between a sea lion getting stabbed and a faulty foghorn. 

_“Ahora hemos llegado a la estación de tren de Atocha. ¡Bienvenido a Madrid!”_

Ian looks at Huber again. His arms are crossed and his face is turned to the window, where the city of Madrid is now whirling by them in a sea of bruised blue and orange. He looks excited again, eyes light and scanning the sights, but there’s a nervous edge to it. A reluctance, a strange quiet. 

They pull into the station and Ian realizes something. He didn’t think it would happen so quickly, but it’s certainly happening. 

He’s actually beginning to care.

 

* * *

 

The truth is, they don’t see very much of Madrid that night. They walk, brisk and silent, to the nearest youth hostel and go straight to sleep without any attempt at conversation.

The truth is, Huber totally snores, all night, and Ian hates him. He absolutely fucking _hates_ him.

 

The dawn over Madrid spreads in pale red and dust yellow, the sunrise a Spanish flag rippling, pastel, across the sky. Ian washes his face in the dirty sink and doesn’t remember why they even came to this city. The view out of the window only shows a sandstone alleyway and a couple Spaniards pissing beside a dumpster.

Oh, to see the world. _No matter where you go, there will always be men pissing in alleyways, and there will always be sunrises, and there will always be someone to complain to,_ he reminds himself. _No need to attack Madrid in particular._

They should get going. “Rise and shine, sweetheart,” he sings airily. Huber’s head raises a couple inches.

“Ugh, what time is it?”

“Time to get the fuck up, because we have sights to see. And locals to annoy.”

Huber stretches in bed and pulls a shirt over his head. “Where to first?”

“Anywhere free.”

 

As it turns out, ‘anywhere free’ is the Museo del Prado, a big hulking rectangle of a museum with empty halls and no gift shop. Ian is staring into a Goya painting and feeling very, very bored. 

The painting portrays a naked woman on a rippled blue sheet. The commentary posted beside it states that it’s meant to evoke a sense of innocence and yearning through colour imagery as well as provoke the audience through the subject’s sensuality, but to Ian, it really just looks like a naked woman on a blue sheet. 

“Art museums, _so_ dull, am I right?” he mutters offhand to Huber, who’s looking at a Monet with an expression of both curiosity and skepticism.

“I dunno,” says Huber, scratching his head, “it’s kind of interesting. The… colours are nice?”

“Are you just saying that you’ve been raised to have an unwarranted respect for classical artists and their work, even though they’re only famous ‘cause they’re old and the fine arts community only likes things if they’re aesthetically pleasing and traditionally conventional?”

“Ian?”

“Yes, Huber.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re the worst kind of hipster?”

 

* * *

 

**BARCELONA**

Two days later, Ian and Huber leave Madrid.

The city was dusty and dry and wholly uninteresting and neither of them wanted to stay so stagnant. Barcelona, however, is sweat-drenched and blue and metropolitan, chrome skyscrapers towering dizzyingly above the Gothic Quarter and its strangely-shaped cathedrals. The city brims with life and speed and energy. “ _Major_ vibes,” as Huber describes it. Ian rolls his eyes. 

For the first two days they bum around the city, drinking cheap beer and hopping on and off bus tours. Ian orders expensive food while he still can and doesn’t touch his notebook and Huber laughs at practically everything. They still feel like they’re on tenterhooks, but it’s beginning to feel more comfortable. Huber stops asking so many questions. Ian stops resenting him so much. 

On their third day, they climb the steps in Park Güell, dirty fingers running over mosaic tiles carefully placed in intricate patterns of turquoise and indigo up the stairwell. The park is a mess of Catalan modernism and strange temples and palm trees, and it stretches out beneath them before the sunset. They take a seat on a bench sitting atop the terrace and watch the people milling below. Huber snaps a picture and sighs.

“Never looks the way it should,” he mutters. 

Ian smiles wryly. “Guess you should just enjoy the uncapturable beauty,” he snarks, “instead of fucking with your phone.”

“That’s boring. _You’re_ boring. I just… I wanted to remember this.”

Ian doesn’t have a comeback. They sit in silence and simmer and watch and wait and stare at the sun so maybe they’ll recall it perfectly a few seconds more.

Huber whispers into the quiet twilight. “Where are we going next?”

“Uh,” says Ian. He genuinely doesn’t know. “I was thinking maybe east. Like, Zaragoza? Or Andorra? Then after that, France. And Italy. As far as we can go before… well.”

“Why, what do you have waiting for you back in Chicago?”

“I’m broke, remember? I gotta go back at the end of the summer, right?”

Huber frowns. “I thought you hated Chicago. Why are you going back?”

“I thought,” Ian says, standing up to peer over the edge of the terrace and letting the wind carry his voice, “that we were going to stop with the questions.”

“Why do you push everyone away?” Huber asks suddenly, getting up too. The sun dips below the hill, painting the sky in broad strokes of cyan and tangerine. “Do you… _like_ being alone and unhappy? Or what?”

Ian’s fingers grip the railing very tight. He stays silent, training his eye on an airplane disappearing to the west.

“Ian?” Huber prompts. “Ian. What were you running from? What’s in Chicago? Why don’t you trust me?” His voice cracks, hurt, tired. A moment later, he places an open palm on Ian’s shoulder.

“Fuck off, Huber,” Ian murmurs. Quiet and bursting. “You wouldn’t get it. No one- no one ever gets it.”

Huber steps back. “Hey. Maybe if you actually talked about yourself, maybe if you cared to explain anything about who you _are_ , maybe then I would, uh, ‘ _get it’_. Maybe then it would be different, huh. Maybe then we wouldn’t feel uncomfortable talking for more than half a damn hour, and maybe then you wouldn’t be scared of me.” 

Ian has never heard ice in Huber’s voice before but he can feel the ground under him cracking now and it’s scary, it’s downright _terrifying_ and _damn it, Ian, don’t get attached-_

“You know what, Huber?” he blurts out without thinking, “have you ever thought that maybe you just pry too much?”

Huber laughs humourlessly. “Wanting to know about your life isn’t _prying._ People that travel together generally want to actually get to know each other.”

“Stop it-”

“Do you just not like me or something?” Huber’s voice trembles. Earthquake aftershocks. “Because if it’s that, I’ll leave.”

Ian is quiet too long.

“Okay.” Huber shoulders his pack with a sigh and a sniffle, “okay, alright, Ian. If that’s what you really want. You… you have a good summer.”

Ian swivels around, eyes wide. “No, Huber, _wait-_ ”

There’s nobody there.

“I didn’t mean…”

The wind whistles. Earthquake aftershocks.

Michael P. Huber is gone. 

The absence of Huber feels like a hole in Ian’s chest. 

No amount of meticulous planning could have ever prepared him for something like this.

He sucks in a deep breath and pulls himself onto the train.

 

* * *

 

**ARCACHON**

Ian spends the next two weeks hitchhiking around the north of Spain. He is very alone and his phone stops working two days after Huber leaves and he writes shitty poetry on train rides and really just wants a friend, dammit.

He ends up in Arcachon. He doesn’t _want_ to go to Arcachon but he takes the wrong train in San Sebastián and finds himself in fucking France, because that’s just how much his life sucks. The town is seaside and tiny and quaint. It makes Ian feel small, which he hates. The sound of the sea echoes like constant static. To be perfectly honest, he’d rather be anywhere _but_ Arcachon, France. _Just stay here. Just for the night, and then you can get the next train to another city, another damn country, whatever, just stay here-_

“Hello? Hello, _monsieur?_ ”

The thick accent snaps Ian from his thoughts. The manager lady from the town’s only youth hostel is staring at him quite strangely.

“Your room is this way,” she says, trained and patient. “Follow me.” Her voice turns to a mutter. “ _Americans_. We have never been so full! _Au moins écouter moi_.”

The hostel is tiny and ramshackle, and people flood the hallways muttering in seemingly hundreds of languages. The room the woman guides him to is small and pretty, with walls painted canary yellow. Inside, there are two rickety beds and a skinny guy hunched over a book. The manager leaves with a forced smile and a few extra euros in her pocket.

“Hi,” Ian says, throwing his pack onto the floor unceremoniously. The guy says nothing. “Uh, hello? Is anyone in there?”

After a tense pause, the man looks up. He’s pointy-faced and his hair is scruffy and he’s wearing a maroon hoodie even though it’s probably a hundred degrees outside. He wrinkles his nose. “Kyle Bosman,” he states with no real explanation, and then, “Uh, I don’t think this is your room.”

“Ian Hinck. And, uh, I think it is,” says Ian cautiously. “The lady said-”

“There’s already another guy staying here,” Kyle interrupts, “and there are only two beds, so.”

“Where’s the other guy?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“The hostel’s full,” Ian explains with a huff. “There’s literally nowhere else I can go.”

Kyle hesitates. “Look,” he starts, “okay, yeah, I get it. I’m backpacking too. I just… it’s the other guy. He’s sort of, uh, _hm_. How do I say this without being a butthead about it? He’s sort of… well, he’s clearly going through some shit.”

Ian sits down on the bed regardless of this fact. “How so?”

He shrugs. “Guy’s really quiet. Just dumped his stuff and left. I know he’s American, but that’s about it. Didn’t even ask me my name.”

_My kinda guy._ “Huh. Well, I hope he doesn’t mind sharing a single bed,” Ian jokes.

“He was kind of _broad_ , though, I don’t know exactly how you’d both fit-”

The door opens with a loud creak.

And then, stunned silence, but for the crashing of the waves.

No one wants to be the first to speak. Kyle’s gaze switches between the two rapidly, as if their faces are having an invisible tennis match and he’s the lone spectator.

“Ian?”

“ _Huber?_ ”

Outside, a seagull laughs.

“Ian,” Huber repeats. His face is unreadable.

“Huber,” says Ian, again. He genuinely does not believe his eyes, because there is no way they’ve just _stumbled across_ one another, there’s no way they’ve both bummed their way to this stupid tiny crowded beachfront town in France, there’s just no goddamn way, it’s ridiculous and wrong and absolutely, entirely unreal.

Kyle just stares, bewildered. “Well, I finally know both of your names now.” He’s suddenly wracked with a strange and confused laugh. “What- what is happening right now? What the hell?” He covers his face and giggles- he really _giggles_ \- into his palms.

Huber is eerily still. Ian’s smiling very nervously. “Um, hi?”

“Hi.”

Kyle has his head in his hands. “What is going _on_.”

Ian ignores him. “What the fuck are you doing here, Huber?” he asks. “Arcachon, France? Really? _Really?_ I come to possibly the most boring, secluded town in all of western Europe and I bump into you, of all people?” He laughs bitterly. “I couldn’t have stumbled across, hm, I don’t know, Prince fucking Harry, no, it had to be _you_ , Michael P. Huber, of _course_ it did. Y’know, I don’t know what I expected, the universe just _loves_ to fuck with me.”

“I don’t want another fight,” Huber says, plainly, eyebrows furrowed. “You know? I actually missed talking to you for half a second.”

Ian bites the inside of his cheek. “I… oh. Um. Uh. I’m sorry?”

“For what?”

“For being a dick to you?”

“…Okay?”

Kyle claps his hands together. “Okay! Cool. Glad that’s sorted. Phew, that tension. _Yikes_.”

Ian glares at him. “Uh, Huber, this is Kyle Bosman, because you never cared to learn his name while you were off being an angsty teenager, and Bosman- do you mind if I call you Bosman?- this is Huber. We travelled together for about a week before we got sick of each other, so that’ll tell you all you need to know about this relationship.”

“Relationship?” Kyle snickers. “How much gay stuff are we talking about here?”

“None!”

“It’s _not_ like that-”

Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Got it. Mm-hm. Use protection.”

“You’re the worst, Bosman.”

“I am aware.”

 

* * *

The next day, after an uncomfortable sleep on a raggedy mattress on the floor (as it turns out, _both_ Huber and Bosman snore, which is a perfect testament to Ian’s terrible, terrible luck), Ian wakes up to a clear, pale sunrise filtering in through baby blue curtains. Kyle Bosman is already dressed and pulling his socks halfway up his calves and donning another hoodie (mustard yellow today, it’s kind of cute, actually), while Huber pulls a fresh shirt over wide shoulders.

“What’re we doing?” Ian asks, and it’s decided, then, that they’re going to be a group.

A thin smile spreads across Huber’s face. “Let’s go to the beach.”

 

The beaches of Arcachon are wide and beautiful and silver-sheened. The three of them lie under a red-and-white parasol and watch the water glimmer. It’s still, but for the seabirds careening in wide arcs above their heads, and Ian sighs, content. Huber buys an ice cream from a vendor and says meaningless things while Kyle reads his book and Ian watches clouds. Sitting quietly, doing nothing, as it should be.

“Kyle,” Huber murmurs after a good, long silence, “what’s your story?”

Kyle jumps and loses his place on the page. “Huh? I’m sorry, could you clarify that?”

“Why are you here? Like, backpacking and stuff.”

“Oh!” Kyle sits up. “Well. It’s certainly an unconventional tale.” He smiles, but only shows it for a moment, quick as hummingbird wings. “Look. I’m a bit of a hermit, I don’t know if you could tell or anything, but going outside isn’t exactly my _thing_.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie in hundred-degree weather at the beach.”

“Exactly! My parents were sick of me hanging around at home playing Nintendo all day, so they literally handed me money so I would leave them alone.” He laughs. “Pretty extreme, huh?”

_You don’t know how lucky you are_ , Ian thinks. “Extreme,” he blurts out, “yeah, getting a free trip across Europe. _So_ extreme.”

Huber glares at him. Ian glares back. 

“…Anyway,” Kyle continues, swallowing, “I went to Iceland for a while, then England, which was great. Then here.”

Huber props his chin on his hands. “Why France?”

“I heard it was pretty, and so far it has not disappointed me.” Kyle opens his book again. “Now enough with the questions! Jeez, you guys are just… incessant.”

Ian flashes Huber a winning smile, like, _hey, it’s not just me_. Huber rolls his eyes and begins to talk about video games.

 

Later, they go for a walk as the tide creeps upwards. Huber is laughing, arms outstretched, as he perilously balances on a fallen log on his tiptoes. Kyle shivers in the sea breeze. Ian stops at a point where the waves break against each other and stares out to open sea, wondering why he feels so strange.

Huber sees him and stops, too, watching seagulls waltz on distant winds. He puts his arm around Ian’s shoulder and neither of them flinch at the contact. 

“I missed this,” Ian admits without turning his head. “It was really… _quiet_ without you.”

Huber doesn’t say anything, just sighs in sync with the wind. Kyle watches them from afar with a smirk dancing on his lips.

 

Arcachon is sleepy and numb but the three of them stay out half the night stumbling through skinny alleyways and stone paths, laughing about nothing at all. By the time they pile back into their room in the hostel, Ian’s insides are warm and honeyed and he’s leaning into Huber’s chest and Kyle’s arm is around his neck and he’s never felt quite like this, like some stupid kid out on the fucking town, like he’s part of something bigger than himself.

Like he finally has a family.

 

* * *

 

Ian wakes up the next day to Huber and Kyle having a whispered argument above his head.

“…I’m not an idiot. It’s obvious.”

“It’s not! It’s not even true! There’s _nothing_ there.”

“Sure, Huber. _Sure_.”

“Bosman. Bosman. You’re looking too hard into things!”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Look-”

Ian raises his head, grins lazily. “Y’all talking about me or somethin’?”

“No,” Huber says at once. “Nope. We’re just packing up to leave for Lyon, you’d better… you’d better get ready.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, grabs his bag and tries not to think too hard about what their discussion was really about.

 

* * *

 

**LYON**

It’s raining in Lyon.

To be fair, Ian should have expected this. There’s bound to be bad weather at some point; it’s a three-month trip, after all. But Lyon is washed in pale grey and muted blue and black umbrellas and everyone feels drained.

Ian takes this lull in time to think over things while they stay sheltered in tour buses and shopping malls. He comes to the realization that he doesn’t want to stop- he never wants to go home. It’s peaceful here, and he’s with people he cares about, and they care just as much about him. It’s funny, though, how little time it took for him to get so attached.

He can picture it now. Himself at seventy, leaning back in a rocking chair thumbing over pictures from this very trip, chuckling with a low rumble as he remembers Huber’s wide grin and Kyle’s shaking laugh and losing themselves in art galleries and running for as long as they possibly can. It’s a sweet thought, and a worrying one, because what if this is his last real hurrah? This stupid spur-of-the-moment rollercoaster ride. What if this is it? 

Fleeting and falling.

Huber splashes through a stretching puddle and smiles toothily, a lone ray of sunshine in the dismal and dreary picture that Lyon paints. Kyle’s beside himself with laughter. Ian has to laugh, too, and God, he loves them. He really, really does. 

He wonders when they’ll leave him.

(The things he loves always do.)

 

* * *

 

Kyle treats them to dinner that night at an extraordinarily fancy French restaurant. He insists that he should pay.

“You’re broke high school graduates that can’t afford to buy _socks_ ,” he points out, fairly. “I’ll cover it.”

So there they sit, three raggedy misfits looking very uncomfortable with the napkins placed carefully over their laps. In silence. They look over the menu and pretend to understand what it means for a while.

Kyle coughs, clearly making a stab at conversation. “So, uh. Whats up, guys. How’s it- how’s it, uh, hanging?”

“Bosman, we’ve spend every waking hour together for the past five days.” Ian rips apart a piece of steaming-hot bread and devours it as if he is a wild animal. “I think you know how it’s, ahem, _hanging_.”

“Don’t be such a jerk, Ian,” Huber says lightly, nudging him with his elbow. “This has been awesome, travelling with you guys is _great_. I love it.”

Kyle rubs at his nose. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fun.”

“If Ian could stop _hating_ for a minute,” Huber jokes, “then maybe it would be a little better.”

“I don’t _hate!_ ” Ian exclaims, laughing despite himself. “I judge, silently, from afar. Pessimistically.” Realizing this isn’t helping his case, he adds, “Not my fault you have rose-tinted glasses literally glued to your face.”

Kyle grins. “Yeah, Huber. You’re a little…”

“What? Are you gonna say something mean? Because it won’t hurt me, I swear, I’ll rise above-”

“… _Naive_.”

Huber narrows his eyebrows. “Alright, hey, hey, let’s not go throwing words like _naive_ around. Because I am not that. I am totally, absolutely _un_ -naive.”

“Not a real word,” says Ian. “And yes, you are naive! Very naive! You sat down at a stranger’s table at a random cafe in _Spain_ and just started _talking_ to him.”

Huber smiles. “And I met you through doing that, so…”

“Exactly.”

“Hey!”

“Kidding!” Ian laughs. 

Kyle smiles. “It’s true,” he says, quiet and understated. “Your curiosity is, well, pretty much boundless. It’s kind of admirable, actually.”

He looks sort of sad, Ian realizes. Melancholic. Waiting. He resolves to be kinder to him in the future.

The waiter comes over and they stumble through their orders, managing to find items that sound vaguely non-threatening. 

“So where are we going next?” Huber asks, slathering a piece of bread with butter. 

Ian smirks. Huber has finally learned that Ian’s the one who makes all the decisions around here. “Milan,” he says with a smirk. “Then Rome, maybe. I want to see some of Italy, at least, though I don’t think we can afford to go down to the Mediterranean. Unless we have Bosman fund it, because then we can stay at Club fuckin’ Med. And play golf with his parents, and eat caviar at the pool, petting their pet jaguars and drinking champagne.”

“Actually, I’m going to Finland,” Kyle sighs, very quickly, as if he wants to get it over with. “Tomorrow. I’ve already booked my train.”

Huber drops his fork with a clatter. “ _What?_ ” 

“I just,” Kyle murmurs, finally, looking regretful and unsure of himself, “I need to see everything. That’s just who I am. I gotta… I gotta move on, y’know? Gotta get going. By myself.”

“Oh, and we’re just dragging you down?” Ian purses his lips. “Alright, okay, got it, whatever.”

“No!” Kyle exclaims. “No, no, Ian, _no_ , that’s not- no, that’s not it. I’m making my own path. I came here to learn how to be independent and… and I’m doing that.”

Huber sighs. “Yeah. You are.” He smiles despite himself. “Hey, good luck up there alone. You’ll probably need it.”

“You’re.. not mad?” Kyle smiles shakily.

“Everyone’s got different places to be,” Huber says simply, with a shrug. “Not a big deal. And it’s not like I’ll be alone, I’ve got Ian with me!”

Ian laughs. “Oh, _joy_.” Huber gives him a glance that says, _hey, shut the fuck up, we still have to deal with each other for the rest of this trip._ “Oh, and Bosman?” he starts lightly.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t, like… die, or anything. I’d feel immensely guilty for letting you go up to a mysterious place all alone if anything happened.”

Kyle gives him a withering look. “Oh yes, all that deadly stuff I’ll have to look out for in _Finland_. Truly, I’ve heard, it’s an absolute _thrill ride_.”

“Just saying!” Ian looks him straight in the eyes. His voice turns sing-song. “Don’t forget about us, Bosman.”

“I won’t!”

“You’re an ass for leaving us like this, Bosman.”

“I hate you.”

“I know you do, Bosman.”

 

* * *

The next day they wake up with full bellies and the strange reservedness that comes with the knowledge that one must say goodbye very soon. It’s quiet. Kyle tightens the straps of his pack and says barely anything while they make the slow trek to the train station.

He buys an overnight ticket heading north. Ian and Huber watch him, all the while discussing their own eastward route purposefully loudly.

“So, Milan, then?”

“Oh, yes, of _course_ , Huber, _Milan_ , what a _city_.”

“Guys,” Kyle protests, “you’re not going to convince me to come with you. I have zero interest in Milan, or anywhere in Italy for that matter, thank you very much.”

Huber sighs. “Welp, it was worth a shot.”

“Bosman,” Ian drawls, practically falling into Kyle’s arms, “you’re so _annoying_ , Bosman.”

Kyle shakes him off, but he’s smiling in a very sad way. “Yeah, yeah, knock it off, you guys, I’ve got a train to catch.”

They walk forward to the train platforms and try their best not to say anything too sappy. People crowd near them, around them, beside them, and they lose each other in the flux and flow of the passengers.

“Good luck!” Ian shouts over the surge, waving frantically. “And fuck you, man!”

“Love you too, Ian!”

Huber’s grinning, but his eyes are damp. “Have fun, Kyle!”

“I’ll try my best!”

They watch, misty-eyed, as Kyle swivels on the spot and saunters to the other platform, head held high, backpack strapped over his chest.

“I’ll miss him,” Huber remarks, then drops his voice to a humoured murmur. “He really buckled his pack over his chest, oh my god. What a dork.”

Ian smirks. “ _Great_ ass, though.”

“Wait, I thought you weren’t gay.”

“Did I ever say that?”

 

* * *

 

**MILAN**

Huber has a Capital-P Problem on his hands, and that Problem is singing obscure punk songs from the late eighties in a floral button-up and a wide-brimmed hat.

_What am I doing what am I doing what the fuck am I doing-_

They’re walking down a street of boutiques in Milan, Italy and Ian can’t stop smiling and neither can Huber, really, and they’re getting strange looks but it doesn’t matter, because they’re in _Italy_ and sunshine floods the cobbled streets and Ian is _singing_. 

The Problem itches at the back of Huber’s mind all day, but he chooses to ignore it. Instead he tries on expensive tailored blazers and goes window shopping, it’s a distraction, he needs something to take his mind off his mind.

Milan is beautiful, a seamless mixture of history and progress and new fashion. Its people are beautiful, too, shining in tan and golden. The girls all share the same haughty glare. The boys all have perfect cheekbones.

The sky is very blue and Ian’s cheap sunglasses flash in the sunlight. He’s laughing, he’s saying something pretentious about the Beatles, and Huber cannot stop staring.

_He looks good with stubble,_ he thinks.

And then, _oh no._

The Problem becomes The Huge And All-Encompassing Dilemma, and the clouds hang heavy over Milan, and Huber is irrevocably and unequivocally fucked.

Ian grabs his wrist- _oh, God, he grabbed my wrist-_ and drags him to a market stall selling bead bracelets and buys one for him, pink clay and white rhinestones strung together.

“ _Grazie_ ,” he says with a wide smile and an open mouth, and tips the vendor double, andoh god, Huber is in love with him, _oh God, no, shit, no, don’t do this, Huber, you idiot, you stupid young-love loser-_

Ian’s staring at him incredulously from ten yards away. “What are you standing there for?” he shouts, grinning. “We’ve got shit to fuck up!”

That they do.

Huber’s pulse beats unnaturally fast against the bracelet.

_God_ , he’s screwed.

 

* * *

“Read me poetry,” Huber says, very suddenly.

They’re sitting on the rooftop of their hostel, atop the world, on two rusted metal chairs they found positioned there as if they were made just for them. Ian’s holding a crappy fruit-flavoured wine cooler he found in a corner store downtown, and Huber’s sipping at a lukewarm beer and feeling the buzz.

Milan is swarming beneath them, a flurry of light and shadow and _movement_. The Arch of Peace is lit up in the blue distance. Ian lifts his head and laughs lowly.

“Poetry?”

He shrugs. To tell the truth, he just wants to hear Ian’s voice. “Doesn’t have to be yours.”

“You’re being very strange today, Huber.” Nevertheless, Ian takes a book from his pack; it is dog-eared and water-stained. He flips to a page he seems to know well. 

“ _I know the bottom,_ ” he starts. Stops, swallows, then starts again. “ _She says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there._ ”

The wind whistles. The moon blinks, wide and round as owls’ eyes, clouds moving restlessly to cover her.

“ _Is it the sea you hear in me, its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?_ ” Ian breathes deeply, consumed, and Huber can barely contain himself, because he’s shimmering in silver, he’s glowing in gold and all he wants is to capture this very moment in a bottle. 

“ _Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously, ‘till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf._ ”

Huber exhales. He did not realize he’d been holding his breath.

“ _Echoing, echoing_ ,” Ian finishes. They’re silent for a moment, watching the clouds ripple like ocean waves, hearing the leaves rustle and imagining sea winds whipping.

“Who was that?” Huber finally asks into the heavy quiet. His voice is hoarse and he isn’t sure why.

Ian closes the book. “Sylvia Plath. _Elm_.”

“Plath? Pretentious, much?”

“Literary gatekeeper, much?”

They glance at each other momentarily and laugh. Huber lets the chuckle rumble through him and tastes guilt on his tongue.

It’s past midnight and it’s warm and dark and low, and they’re sat atop the world just to watch it pass them, and he is in love, and he is blind and terrified and it’s not worth it and he is in love, and it’s the worst feeling in the world, his heart is swelling three sizes, he’s painting scenes of the future that will never come to be and he is in love, and he is in love, and he is in love.

He swallows a confession. It burns his throat but he swallows it, letting the fire run into his stomach. “Thanks, Ian.”

“For what?”

“This. All of it. I- I’m really glad we’re friends.”

He doesn’t deserve someone like Ian. Someone so bright and so beautiful. Someone he knows is going to haunt him years after they part ways, years after they stop talking, in the slight turn and tumble of his hair, in the smooth lines of his jaw, in fleeting glances and echoing words- Huber’s never going to escape it. The sweet sounds. The waiting game.

Ian stares at him, confused, but his face breaks into a smile. “Me too, Huber. Me too.”


	2. AVAUNT;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! theres some discussion of suicide and a scene with a panic attack in this so please please please take heed <3 and i’m sorry this took so long. i was at rtx and then a wedding. and also i am a procrastinator. and also it’s like over 10k words, what do you want from me? anyway, more notes below!

 

“It’s opener there

in the wide open air.”

\- _Oh, the Places You’ll Go!_ , Dr. Seuss

 

**2; AVAUNT**

 

**ROME**

One week later, Huber’s smile stops looking so much like sunshine. 

Rome towers and sprawls all at once and the city seems to spin all around them. It’s broiling hot and the air is heavy and tension runs rife through the city, winding around statues and through alleyways. They’re been moving nonstop, through packed galleries and museums with exhibits on historic events they’ve never heard of, all past battles and precious jewels. Fallen kings and dinosaur bones.

So they’re standing on the Spanish Steps and tourists scream and shove on either side of them, and Huber feels feverish and Ian feels bitchy and they’re stuck, they’re brimming with secrets and questions and it’s all disjointed and it’s all out of place and nothing is going their way.

Ian keeps watching Huber out of the corner of his eye. He’s not sure what it is but his stomach turns whenever he so much as looks at him. There’s a strange tension, and maybe it’s the city or maybe- maybe it’s just them. 

“So what’s the deal with the steps?” Huber pants. A vulture circles above them. “Like… are they just stairs? Why are they Spanish?”

“They were actually built by the French,” Ian says with a smirk. “They were named that because they lead down to the Spanish Embassy. But it’s definitely French architecture.”

“Huh, I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” says Ian, practically dismissing him with a wave of his wrist. 

Huber frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I guess I just know more about Roman history? It’s not a big deal, I know way too many useless facts.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Huber spits, mind running two steps ahead of his mouth, “I guess I’m just not smart enough for you.”

“When did I ever say that?” Ian frowns at him. It’s not like Huber to be so… angry. To get so carried away. “ _What_?”

“Guess I’ll always be your stupid fucking- fucking _sidekick_. Or whatever.” His voice is loud and carrying. “Nothing’s ever good enough, with you. I’m not- I’m not a poet! I’m not an artist, I’m not your goddamn _muse_ , Ian. You can’t just- just expect me to fall over at your feet sobbing Keats quotes and- and fucking Beatles lyrics, that’s not who I am!”

“Huber-”

“No!” Eyes wide and wild. “No, you know what, I’m done with this. I’m done with you treating me like I’m fucking worthless, alright?” Hair shining wheat-gold in the harsh sun. “I’m done!”

Breath laboured and heavy.

City sinking in pink and cream.

Ian feels his face turn to stone. “Huber. Huber, wait just a second, god, no, _Huber-_ ” he splutters, to no avail. Huber’s face is red and streaming. _Oh god, are those tears-_

Huber’s crying in the middle of the Spanish Steps over some stupid argument and neither of them have ever felt more helpless. The sky is blue and blinding and Huber is having a breakdown in public for no goddamn reason; his face looks distorted and half-monstrous when he’s furious, when he’s crying. 

And Ian snaps to the realization that he would kill a man to keep Michael P. Huber happy.

To keep him smiling.

_Please just keep fucking smiling god god please Huber stop crying, please, just smile for me; please, please, please; damn it, damn it, damn it._

Huber storms down the steps. Ian runs after him, grabbing at the back of his shirt. He swivels, eyes ablaze.

“WHAT ARE YOU GONNA SAY?” Huber bellows; his face crumples. “What are you gonna say, huh? That you know better?”

“I-”

“That I’m being irrational? That- that you’re gonna, what? Kiss it better?”

“Huber,” Ian says, again. “Huber, stop. You’re- you’re having a panic attack.” The world seems to slow. Gravity feels ten times as strong. “Please just try to calm down,” he says quietly. “You’re gonna say things you don’t mean. And,” he takes a deep breath, “and I don’t fault you. I’m treating you like a kid, and I’m sorry. Just please please please calm down, c’mon, deep breaths, you can- you can do it.”

Huber gulps and nods and cradles his face between his palms. The ground feels wrong beneath his shoes. “Fuck, fuck, Ian, I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry, I-”

“Not your fault,” Ian says, measured. “Hey, hey. You’re fine. Come on. Let’s just go back to the room, alright? No more- no more ruins, alright?”

“Alright.” Huber looks so scared in the noon light. He stares at his hands like they’re weapons.

“You good?”

“I’m okay.” His voice is so meek.

“Good. Okay is fine. Okay is great.” He takes a deep breath; people are staring. “Now please let’s just _go_.”

 

* * *

 

That night Huber shuts down in the cluttered bathroom of the hostel, pressing on his temples so hard he worries he’ll split his own skull.

For Huber, shutting down means _shutting the hell down_ , shutting down means red face and hot tears in thin rivers, shutting down means bile memories and old wounds and breathing, shutting down means not breathing, shutting down means his second panic attack in one day, alone in a toilet stall in Rome, fucking _Rome_ , shutting down means breaking apart with no one there to sweep up the shards.

So Huber’s sitting on the stained ground with his head in his hands trying to shake the guilt out of his own body. He should never have started talking to Ian in the first place, what was he fucking thinking, falling in love with a virtual stranger, head over heels like a little kid, like a puppy.

What sort of overoptimistic idiot was he, to believe he could ever be loved by someone like Ian? By anyone at all? It’s stupid. He’s stupid. He lives in Los Angeles and Ian lives in Chicago and what made him think it would ever be easy? What made him think it would ever work out?

There is a sudden and rapid knock on the door. “Hello? Hell- Huber, I know you’re in there, what the fuck is going on?”

Huber feels sick to his stomach. “Go away.” He can feel the voice crack rip through his throat like a tremor.

“Are you… are you alright?” Ian sounds genuinely panicked. “Huber? _Huber_. Please, I- I’m sorry-”

“I said, go away,” Huber repeats weakly. Still breathing heavy. Still blinking back tears. “Please, Ian.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Just give me time.”

“Time,” Ian repeats through the door. “Yeah. Okay, Huber.” He pauses. “Just… if you need anything, I’m here.”

Huber chokes back a sob and tries to breathe. His heart is a hummingbird that keeps flying into windows and not understanding why it’s not in the clouds. 

 

The next morning, they board the train to San Marino.

It’s silent.

 

* * *

 

**SAN MARINO**

The Most Serene Republic of San Marino, as it is officially known, is tiny. That’s perhaps the most apt word to describe it. It’s technically a country by global means but its population hovers around just thirty-thousand. The City of San Marino is nestled in the Apennine mountains, surrounded by stretching rugged terrain. Three towers sit on the top of Monte Titano, glaring down upon them like great stone kings.

Huber has been quiet the whole day, only breaking his guilty silence to mumble monosyllabic answers to Ian’s questions. They wander around the quiet city after dropping off their bags at their hostel, and neither of them want to speak. Neither of them want to ruin things again.

So Ian buys some grapes from a vendor’s cart and realizes he should probably make conversation, should probably say _something_ just to save their crumbling friendship. He pops a grape into his mouth and feels the skin split between his teeth. “This is nice.”

Huber hums in agreement, not crying, not even frowning, just staring blankly at the cobblestones. 

“So,” Ian begins, halting. “So I thought, I thought maybe we should take the cablecar to the top of the mountain to see the towers. The pamphlet at the hostel said that the view’s to die for.” He knows Huber won’t disagree, so he presses on. “This city has so much history, y’know? It’s so small but it has its own military, see, look over there at the cathedral, those guys, with the hats. They’re just ceremonial, but it still counts as an army. Isn’t that odd?”

They move on through the city towards the cablecar station, Ian rambling all the way just to fill the empty space, the yawning void. Huber keeps nodding. 

It’s fine.

He doesn’t speak in the cablecar. He doesn’t speak on the bus to the towers. He doesn’t speak in the ramshackle museum of the fortress of Guaita, he doesn’t speak on the path to the cliffside overlooking the country, he doesn’t speak when they sit on the very edge with their legs dangling into open air.

The sky paints itself pretty; the sun is falling behind the round peaks. It casts a pink-orange light across the rolling hills and everything is shining rose gold and it is so, so beautiful.

And then Ian swallows, hard, and opens his mouth.

“San Marino is just lovely, isn’t it, Mike?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. “All those houses down there, tucked into the mountains. So small. Like ants. And this sunset’s so golden. And the sky, it just… it just… _goes_.”

A bird calls out below them. It sounds like a warning. 

“Have you ever wanted to die, Ian?”

The question is so unexpected and so softly muttered that it takes him a second to fully grasp it. He turns to Huber, who’s still staring blankly at the buildings scattered in the greenery below them. So insignificant.

“What?” Ian asks this as a courtesy more than genuine surprise. The answer is yes. Yes, of _course_ , yes.

Huber’s voice doesn’t change at all from his normal tone. “I asked a question.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, unsure of where this could lead. “God, yeah, I have.”

“Okay.” Huber grabs Ian’s hand, all sudden-like, all lifeline-like. So tight they can feel each other’s pulse.

Ian resists the urge to jump back. To curl up. “Huber,” and his voice is unsteady, “are you alright?”

Huber pauses, and smiles without really smiling. “Yeah,” and his words are thick and choking, “yeah. I’m okay.”

San Marino is still.

Ian’s internal Richter scale is giving him so many warnings.

“I tried,” Huber finally continues, still clutching tight to Ian’s hand, “y’know. I tried to kill myself when I was sixteen. No good reason, just shut in and scared.”

“Of what?”

Huber keeps speaking in that terrifying calm voice, though it’s husky and halting now. “Figured out I wasn’t, well, straight. Freaked out, I guess, assumed everyone would hate me and it all just… spiralled. For months. When you go to church every Sunday for- for _years_ , every word hurt. Hurt like a burning.” He lifts his head and follows a cloud across the sky. “You get me?”

Ian’s heart aches for him, for the sixteen-year-old boy locking himself in his bedroom, for the sixteen-year-old boy scared half to death of himself, of the sin in his fingers, of what was buried in his chest. _You have no idea_ , he thinks, he wants so desperately to say. 

“I get you,” is what he really says, though, and, “I’m sorry that happened,” and, then, quieter, “how?”

It’s the wrong question, he knows, he knows as soon as it passes his teeth, too far to suck back in, and he looks down at his hands in shame.

Huber says nothing. Ian feels sick and dizzy and tries not to look down. They sit in silence for a few more moments, watching and waiting. And letting go.

“God,” Huber finally murmurs to the valley. Clutches Ian’s hand a little tighter. “God, fuck that, y’know? Fuck feeling like, like, like _nothing_ for years. Fuck Hell and fuck burning and _fuck_ God, fuck being sixteen and terrified for my life, just, fuck it,” and he’s shouting now, to nothing, to no one and his voice is trembling like an aftershock, “I’m so sick of being scared. I was sick of living and now I’m sick of wanting to die- I’m so goddamn sick of it. Of, of, of feeling like this. I’m tired, Ian. I’m so tired.”

Ian blinks and feels hot tears dripping down his face. Memories rear their ugly heads- a chiffon skirt. Writing on bathroom walls. Purpling sky over cornfields, and, “Huber-”

“Don’t,” Huber says suddenly, getting up, dusting off his shirt and sniffling. “Please, please don’t.”

It’s so cold up on that cliff over the city. It’s so cold and it’s so windy and they’re so shaky they’re scared they’ll fall away. It’s so cold and Ian finds himself standing up and hugging Huber, dark past and bright future Huber, joyous, hyperactive, puppy-love Huber, warm soft broad pink blue blond yellow cornflower sobbing shaking _Huber._

So they’re hugging and crying together on a fucking cliffside and Ian thinks it’s a scene straight from a shitty indie movie made by some starry-eyed undergrad filmmaker because the colours are all blown out in violet and sinking green, and they’re spinning in each other’s trembling arms and, for half a second, Ian’s in love with the moment. For half a second, the tears are for joy. 

“You’re more than what you love,” he whispers, to Huber, to himself, to the world. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He steps back, wiping his cheeks and smiling despite himself. “I’m not sure why… why I’m so _happy_ ,” he laughs shakily. Perhaps, he thinks, the feeling is not joy, but some new and longing adoration. Perhaps.

Huber manages a sweet smile, though his eyes are still flooding. He looks as if he’s going to say something, and stops it before it slips from his tongue. “Thank you for being so nice.” His voice is guarded but no less emotional, and he’s grinning now, saying, “I feel happy too.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

> **eight haiku on the train to venice**
> 
> _ i. hinck _
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. 
> 
> to be fair, he is
> 
> sweet-smelling; boy like thunder,
> 
> wet palms and bright eyes
> 
>  
> 
> 2\. 
> 
> who cares if i’m weak,
> 
> if i’m soft and swayed easy
> 
> by blonds, oh angel
> 
>  
> 
> 3\. 
> 
> white-winged and so bright
> 
> i’m scared i’ll go blind; will it
> 
> hurt? like a burning?
> 
>  
> 
> 4\. 
> 
> i put myself out,
> 
> douse my wrists in water to
> 
> quench their stupid thirst
> 
>  
> 
> 5\. 
> 
> but he’s so pretty
> 
> in the light; it scares me half
> 
> to death. i don’t stop
> 
>  
> 
> 6.
> 
> OH GOD OH GOD OH
> 
> I CAN FEEL HIS PULSE UNDER
> 
> MINE, OH GOD, OH GOD
> 
>  
> 
> 7\. 
> 
> head throbbing, i count;
> 
> one-and-two flutters; so soft,
> 
> this hummingbird heart
> 
>  
> 
> 8\. 
> 
> to be fair, i am
> 
> not so easily swept. but
> 
> tonight, yes. i drown.

 

 

* * *

 

**VENICE**

The sky is the colour of a blood bruise. 

It should be beautiful. The sky should be baby blue and the canals should be shimmering in sunlight, in candied hues. People in gondolas should be singing sweet songs and the clouds should be fluffy and the day was _supposed_ to be nice.

Except it isn’t. Except Venice is flooding.

The two of them are stuck on a raised walkway watching water surge into the city. They’re standing huddled under a tiny pocket umbrella Huber thankfully thought to pack, after being directed onto the bridge with a crowd of other tourists by a frantic police officer. The water beneath them, spilling onto the streets, is brackish and spotted with garbage. 

“Not exactly the pretty canals from the brochures,” Ian comments with a grimace. Huber snickers. Thunder rolls above them like a laugh.

A woman speaks in Italian behind them, and Huber turns to her. “Excuse me,” he says above the rain, “do you know how long…?”

“An hour,” she says, heavily accented. “Is called _‘Acqua alta’_. High water. Should be… no problem.”

“Acqua alta,” Huber repeats. “Huh. Thanks.”

They wait for around twenty-five minutes trading quips and complaints before sanitation workers finally come bearing wooden planks to construct temporary walkways. Eventually people are able to peel away from the crowd in pairs, back to their homes or hotels. Ian and Huber stay on the bridge, though, staring at the slow lapse of the draining canals. 

“Central Europe,” Ian comments, “ _so_ unpredictable.”

“Before this trip you’d never left Chicago,” says Huber cuttingly. 

Ian snorts. “Woah, who put a stick up your ass today?”

“Nobody, I’m just,” Huber starts, and then sighs, and then looks out to the open water without finishing his sentence.

Ian frowns. “No, no. Go on, Huber, what were you saying?”

“Nah, it doesnt-”

Ian raises an eyebrow. His jaw sets. “…Matter?” he offers, delicately. “Mm.”

“It’s just,” Huber says, crossing to the other side of the stone bridge and staring at the people milling along the walkways, “it’s just that I- I wish I hadn’t told you all that.” He swallows. “In San Marino. I wish I hadn’t… hadn’t said anything.”

Ian frowns. “Why? I’m glad you told me.”

“It’s just that you’re treating me like I’m _glass_ ,” Huber blurts out, getting louder and more anxious. “And I still don’t think I know the first thing about you, and I think, I think maybe you pity me, and I want to know, Ian.” His voice breaks. “I wanna know _your_ tragedy.”

“No, you don’t,” Ian says quietly. “You don’t.”

“I’m- I’m tired of you being just some manic pixie dream boy with a stupid undercut that writes useless poetry and doesn’t have any flaws,” Huber shouts, desperate, trying. Like an oil spill. “Who are you, Ian? Who the hell even _are_ you?”

Ian feels a lump start forming in his throat. The word _useless_ echoes in his eardrums. “I don’t _know_ , Huber.” His voice strains with the effort of pushing the words past his teeth, and it’s fruitless, and he can’t stop himself.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why are you so fucking secretive?”

“That’s just who I am!”

“There has to be a _reason-_ ”

“Because…” And Ian’s face is hard as stone. And Ian’s hands are trembling. “Because I stepped out of my bedroom wearing a skirt and my parents told me I wasn’t their son.” 

Earthquake aftershocks. Ian’s crying, he’s fucking crying, and his tears drip off his nose onto his lips. “And I- and, and I agreed with them.”

Huber steps back. His fingers are outstretched and trembling. Mind going a hundred miles a minute. “I- I didn’t-”

“That’s why I never told you who I was running from,” Ian spits. “I’m running because I have nowhere else to go. I’m running from them and I’m running from myself and I,” the tears are streaming freely now, and here is the flood, the fall, the thunder, “I can’t stop, I can’t fucking _stop_ , Huber, if I run I don’t have to figure anything out yet, I can just keep going and never go home and Huber, _god damn it_ , Mike, you’re not the one that’s meant to be crying.” He manages a smile but it feels more like drowning. “Please, _please_ stop crying.”

Huber blinks several times, and wipes his cheek with his shirt. “Ian,” he manages to choke out, and he’s staring at him like he’s the most captivating thing in the goddamn world, and it’s hopeless, “Ian, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t _say_ that-”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I was an ass to you. I should’ve…” He looks like he’s on the verge of spilling over. “Do you,” his voice wavers, he’s unsure of himself, “d’you want me to call you something else?”

“Like… what?”

“Like, like _they?_ Or a new name, or something? If I’ve been making you uncomfortable this whole time, I swear-”

“No!” Ian grabs Huber’s wrist, squeezes maybe too tightly. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine.”

“Clearly it’s not!”

“I don’t know yet!” Ian snaps. “You’re fine! It’s fine, please, just give me some time, alright?”

Huber nods, solemn as the grave. Adam’s apple bobbing. 

They stand at that bridge, Ian’s hand around Huber’s wrist, and stare at the rippling water for a good long while. Each too scared to say anything. Each wondering if their connection has been strengthened or ruptured.

“Well,” Huber whispers, a slow smile creeping, unsure of itself, across his face, “at least I can’t pester you about your biggest secret anymore.”

Ian grins, eyes puffy. “So you admit it was pestering.”

“Okay, well, yeah, I could’ve been a lot less…”

“Annoying?”

“…Aggressive.”

“I’ll say.” Ian swallows the doubts climbing up his throat, bitter as bile. “I was so scared you would hate me, or something.”

Huber looks struck, looks hurt, looks sorry. “Ian,” he murmurs, mystified, “how could I ever hate you?”

 

They stay in Venice for another four days. Ian starts to feel comfortable in his own skin again. The tension dissipates, as do the flood and the storm. 

The overnight train to Zurich leaves Italy behind, a single spot of light in an indigo blur, and Ian is glad to be rid of it, and they fall asleep in bare-boned beds to the gentle rocking of the carriage.

 

* * *

 

**ZÜRICH**

They wake up in Zurich, dim sunrise light streaming through the train windows. The day is full and saturated. The sun is gold. The sky is cobalt, and moisture hangs in the air.

It’s very early. They make their way through empty streets simply admiring how the morning spreads over the city, roof tiles lined in rays of light.

And then Huber pats his pocket and almost falls over.

“Fuck,” says Huber, “fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“What?”

“Shit, shit, no no no.” He sticks his hand in his pocket. “No, no, oh god.”

Ian frowns. “What, what is it? Is everything okay?”

Huber sits down gingerly on the curb of the sidewalk, looking lost. “My wallet’s gone.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“My passport… the Eurail pass… fuck, all my money, _shit_ , Ian.” His head is in his hands. “Oh my god, I’m so fucked, Ian, we’re so fucked.”

Ian sits down beside him and places his hand between the small of Huber’s back. “Why, we’ll be okay, won’t we? We’ll just buy new ones, it’ll be a stretch financially, but-”

“Too far a stretch,” says Huber glumly. “I don’t even think there’s enough money in my bank account for another Eurail pass and an emergency passport and a new credit card and.. god, everything.”

Ian’s sort of at a loss for words, so he pats Huber’s back in what he hopes is a sympathetic way. 

They sit there for what seems like decades in the hot, hot sun, until someone clears their throat above them. “Hello? Excuse me, hello, are you two alright?”

Ian looks up to see a stout old woman standing over them with her hands on her hips. She’s round and pink and wearing a yellow dress and looks very, very worried. Her accent is strong- German, maybe.

“Uh, yes,” he says after a pause. “Yes, we’re just fine, sort of. Thank you for asking.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, extending her hand. Ian takes it and stands up, pulling Huber up with him. 

Huber frowns. “We’ve lost something.”

There’s a youthful twinkle in her eye. “Haven’t we all? My name is Anaïs Matti, but that’s _Frau_ Matti to you. And you are?”

He’s enchanted immediately. “Huber, and that’s Ian.”

“Huber?” Frau Matti laughs. “Are you sure you are a real American? That’s a very German name.”

“Are you sure you’re really Swiss?” Ian counters. “Because your English is impeccable.”

She smiles. Her cheeks are the colour of roses. “Don’t you sass me, I’m your only chance to get shelter tonight, if I’m right in assuming you’ve lost… what is it? Your money? Your passport?”

“Both,” says Huber miserably. 

“Good God! That’s just a little bad.”

Huber smiles wryly. “Ha, just a little.”

Frau Matti tuts and shakes her head. “Come with me. My house is so empty nowadays, I could use some company.”

“What?”

“Don’t look at me all surprised with those big eyes!” she exclaims, elbowing him. “Come along, not-German German boy and your strange friend! My apartment is not far from here. Hold my groceries, Ian, yes, just like that. Thank you. It’s my bones, see, they’re old and light, like a bird’s.”

“You don’t have to room us,” says Huber frantically. “We’ll be fine in a hostel, Ian still has-”

“Uh-uh!” sings Frau Matti, beckoning. “It is my pleasure, Huber! Come! _Come_.”

She both terrifies and mystifies them.

They follow her.

 

Her apartment is above a chocolaterie and it’s adorable. Her few windows have a wide view of the city, which stretches before them in a burnt yellow, Lake Zürich shining cornflower blue in the distance. The furniture is simple and wooden, and coloured knickknacks are scattered haphazardly atop everything, from painted plates to abstract art to wind-up toys to empty birdcages.

Frau Matti immediately hobbles over to the kitchen and takes out a red bottle from a low cupboard. “Here,” she says, passing it to Ian, “drink.”

The label identifies it as a Merlot. He sets it on the table, frowning. “This looks expensive.”

She tuts, taking out flour and, inexplicably, three cans of peaches. “I have no one else to drink it with, so what do you expect? Strawberry wine?”

“Water, honestly.”

“Silly boy. Put those groceries away and- oh, where were the wine glasses again? You’re going to help me make a peach cobbler.”

That they are. Neither of them have ever really baked but they make measurements for her and help set timers and lick the spoons clean of peach syrup. Huber grins the whole time and Ian gets horrendously tipsy at one in the afternoon and they both end up with flour freckling their noses and cheeks.

They eat the cobbler- which tastes like sunlight, by the way- for lunch with homemade ice cream and Frau Matti finds a few books of old photos from when she was their age, stuffed away in a cabinet. They pore over the books for hours, memories of forgotten people, dust people, light leaks and Frau Matti cries but only a little bit. She talks about the Cold War and Switzerland’s political system and her childhood on a farm near St. Gallen, and how she met her late husband on a Eurail train headed to Austria, and her school friends and her work friends and her ex-boyfriends and her ex-girlfriends and her dogs.

And they find her wedding photos. She was beautiful and he was, too, and they had gotten married in a clearing in a Swiss forest and suddenly Huber’s crying, too, silently, into his fingers.

Ian wishes he could be so sentimental. He closes the book and puts it back on the table. He’s less drunk but still woozy, so he kisses Frau Matti on the cheek and pads over to the guest room and falls asleep.

When he leaves, Frau Matti turns to Huber and asks him, “why are you crying?” and he takes a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” she laughs. “Of course you know. They’re your tears.” She looks down at the wedding photos again, frail fingers dancing over the film, an understanding dawning on her face. “You’re in love with him.”

He nods.

Shakily, she pours him more wine. “Talk to me about it.”

So he starts with Toledo. He starts with approaching the beautiful person alone at a cafe, and then Madrid and all of its questions and Barcelona, when he left. He talks about stumbling upon Arcachon in search of good beaches and new people and finding Ian in his room and he talks about France, he talks about Lyon and how at ease they all were, he talks about Italy. He talks a lot about Milan. He talks about the rooftop in Milan where he really fell in love with Ian, with terrified runaway Ian, with jaded and broken Ian, with light-laugh silver-sheen poet-speak _Ian_. He talks about Rome, briefly, but not too much. And he talks about San Marino. He talks about secrets and letting go and Venice, he talks about Ian’s problems and his own problems and he talks about love.

He’s a little drunk and the wedding pictures are still on the coffee table and he’s hit with a wave of homesickness, some strange familiarity, some comfort, and he wishes he could forget all about Ian Hinck, and Europe, and falling.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says finally, wiping a tear from under his eye. “I think I love him, Frau Matti, I really think I do.”

She frowns and takes another sip of wine. “Be truthful,” she says. “It is the only way.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Ian goes out early to the police station and Huber sits on Frau Matti’s pullout couch and reads Ian’s book of poetry. Not his own poems, of course, those are secrets, but the little dog-eared water-stained paperback collection titled _Poems to Whisper_. They are not all love poems but a large sum of them are, and he pores over them with an intensity his high school English teacher would have killed for.

He leafs through it until he finds the Sylvia Plath poem Ian had read out on that rooftop in Milan. He reads over it several times, trying to decipher the meaning. There’s more stanzas than what he heard, spelling out something more definitively tragic.

 

 

 

> _ I am terrified by this dark thing _
> 
> _ That sleeps in me;  _
> 
> _ All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Clouds pass and disperse.  _
> 
> _ Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? _
> 
> _ Is it for such I agitate my heart?  _

 

Huber wonders how Ian felt when he first read the poem. If he connected with the darkness Plath discussed. The strange, sleeping evil. The agitation of the heart.

He wonders if he even really knows Ian at all.

 

Over the next hour and a half, Huber weighs his options. 

On one hand, it’s risky. If he reads the situation wrong and spills over maybe Ian will feel uncomfortable. Maybe he’ll run, again. He’ll probably run and it’ll be all Huber’s fault and he’ll go back to Chicago to who-knows-what kind of family environment and neither of them will be happy about it. 

On the other hand, Frau Matti is right- hiding will hurt. Secrets will hurt. He knows this, he knows the aching weight of keeping feelings in the dark. And Ian might- Ian might not hate him. Ian might even like him back.

He realizes it’s childish, this game of back-and-forth. Like a ten-year-old writing a love note to his crush and sticking it in her pencil case. He realizes he’s being irrational and Ian is actually nice and probably wouldn’t hit him. He’s just beginning to gather up courage in the pit of his belly when the door swings open and hits the wall with a bang.

Ian’s grinning wide, voice light and sing-song. “ _Huber_ , you would not _believe_ what I did for you.”

Huber gets up very suddenly, very stiffly. But his mind is clearer than ever, and the words are coming out easy. “Hi, Ian.”

“Huber, I did it, dude! I found your wallet, your passport, the police were really nice, they’re _nothing_ like American cops, seriously, what the hell.”

“Ian, there’s something-”

“I found the wallet, look, here-”

“Ian.”

“Your wallet-”

“ _Ian_.”

“What?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “You’re being weird again.”

“You ever,” Huber murmurs, “you ever meet someone and you just- you just know they’re gonna change your whole life?”

The sun comes out from behind a cloud and fills the room with a soft yellow light. His mind is empty. It’s fine. It’s fine.

“Huber, you’re not making any sense-”

He can’t stop now. “You ever meet someone and they’re like, uh. They’re like the first day of spring? And it smells like rain and your flowers are all blooming and it’s sunny for the first time in months? No, wait, sorry, that’s a dumb metaphor, I’ve never had a garden and there’s no winter in L.A., ignore all of that, but, well, alright, so imagine there’s a person that just kind of makes you feel like, uh, like Sunday mornings, right?”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

The world is blind and unforgiving. The world is light and new and stumbling and _just this once_ , Huber thinks, prays, _just this once, if I could have the words…_

“I,” and Huber’s voice is calm as still water, “am so in love with you.”

Ian gapes.

Earthquake aftershocks.

A perfect ten on the Richter scale.

“I just,” he’s stammering now, _the shock on his face,_ _he hates me, he hates me, this was a mistake, I’m fucked_ , “I just, we’ve been travelling together and, I, um, I think… I think you’re so beautiful and funny and I think , maybe, you’re the first person to make me feel like I’m worth anything and, and, Ian,” he whispers, heavy, peeking out from behind trembling fingers, “Ian, I just-”

Ian’s mouth spreads into a wide grin. “Shut _up_ , Huber,” he says, voice thick with something unsaid, and he kisses him.

Peach cobbler.

Arcachon salt.

_Holy shit what the fuck it’s real he’s real we’re something this is something he is warm we are warm it worked it worked_ it worked _-_

They break apart and it, well, they feel like it’s a Sunday morning (and it isn’t, it’s a Thursday, but it’s so hard to keep track during a summer like this). Huber grins at his feet, then at Ian, and they’re both smiling with half a laugh on their lips and god, god, god, it’s perfect, and somehow, by some stupid miracle, it worked.

And Huber has his wallet back. 

It’s the little things that count.

 

Later that afternoon Huber regales the tale to Frau Matti, who cries and hugs them both. They’re leaving for Frankfurt that night, and she looks crushed to see them go so soon.

“You have just begun dating and now you are _leaving?_ ” she cries, indignant. “This is ridiculous.” A sad, quiet smile creeps across her face. “Do take care of yourselves. It is a strange world out there.”

“That it is,” says Ian.

She packs them the rest of the peach cobbler and produces hand-knitted cowls from a cabinet and her hands tremble the whole time. Their goodbyes are melancholic, and even Ian is misty-eyed as they wave goodbye to Frau Matti and her strange miracle of an apartment and the ridiculous city of Zurich and nostalgia and beginnings.

They walk out the door hand in squeezing hand.

 

* * *

 

 

**FRANKFURT**

In Frankfurt, Ian wears a circle skirt and shaves and asks Huber to use ‘she’.

The day is orange and glaringly hot and humidity hangs in the air with the dragonflies. They jaunt down the main street and ignore the strange looks and tune out the whispers and hold hands, clammy. 

“Wow, if I wore this in my hometown I would’ve gotten lynched,” Ian says sweetly. “I love Europe! No one cares!”

Huber looks at her like she’s crazy, and she is, a little. “You’re throwing around the word ‘lynched’ real easy there, Ian.”

She simply shrugs and pulls him by the wrist. “Come on, come _on_. I want to go to the Städel Museum!”

 

* * *

 

So. The hostel room has one bed. 

_Oh, Lord._

So they’re at the hostel and it’s half past one in the morning and there’s one bed in the matchbox room and, well, Ian drops her bag with a sigh and a murmur and an uncomfortable grimace.

“Guess we gotta squish up, huh, Huber,” she murmurs forlornly. “It’ll be like a sleepover.”

“Is it still a sleepover when we’re dating? And have already been sleeping in the same room for over a month?”

“ _Sleepover_.”

Huber sits on the bed and takes out the handful of brochures he got from the lobby, six different cities in western Europe. “Where were we going to go next, again?”

“Düsseldorf, I told you.”

“What the hell is interesting about Düsseldorf?” Huber asks, letting that brochure float to the floor. “Let’s do Amsterdam instead.”

Ian frowns, sitting gingerly down next to him. “Why Amsterdam? I’m not complaining, but.. seems kinda far.”

“A high school friend of mine is there with her girlfriend for university,” he explains. “They’ll let us crash at their place. And the train ride’s, what, five hours? That’s not that bad.”

She tucks her legs up beneath her and takes a book out of her pack. “Sounds like a plan.”

It’s very quiet in that room washed in low yellow light. It’s very quiet and Huber thinks Ian looks beautiful, she’s soft and she should probably shave soon and her eyelashes are so long. And she’s still, somehow, a mystery. After all this time.

“Ian,” Huber says in a murmur. “Can you tell me about your family?”

She looks up from her book with an expression that’s entirely unreadable. Crinkled eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Why you’re terrified of them.”

“I’m _not-_ ”

“Ian.” Huber stares at her imploringly. “No more secrets. You promised.”

There’s a tense silence before Ian sighs with a finality. “Okay. Alright, Huber, I’ll tell you about my family.” She swallows, hard, before continuing, eyes clouded. “So. Uh. I grew up in this pretty small town in Wisconsin. And there were all these trees, and it was beautiful, and I was really young at the time but that was when everyone was really happy. And then when I was ten we moved to Chicago and I started viewing my parents as people and then I realized they weren’t, um, good? And then I got a little older and learned stuff. About myself, and about the world in general and how I had to hide to live normally, and, and I don’t know. My mom was nice until she got judgey and my dad never really hid anything he thought, so, so, so yes, I came out to them. So, so yes, they fucking- yeah, they fucking hurt me. They manipulated me and they loathed me and they _hurt_ me, Huber.”

“They hurt you?” 

She nods, swallowing. “And then I packed my shit and left because I couldn’t take it anymore. I was nineteen and had some money to blow so I came here. I wanted- I guess I just wanted to get as far away from them as possible.” She looks at Huber with wet eyes. “So there you go. The whole fucking story, are you happy now?”

Huber bites his lip. “They didn’t deserve to know you.” And then, “I’m glad you got away from them.”

“Well, so am I.”

“You should live with me,” Huber blurts out. “In LA. You wouldn’t have to go back to Chicago.”

Ian turns to him, a faint smile dancing on her lips. “I love you, I think.”

He laughs, very quietly, and it sounds like gold. “I love you, I know.”

They sleep together in that bed- they don’t _sleep together_ , but they sleep beside each other, everything innocent, hands clasped zipper-tight, calm in the proximity and soft warmth. 

And it doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

* * *

 

**AMSTERDAM**

The girls meet them at the train station.

It’s late afternoon and the sky is the palest shade of eggshell blue. Clouds are dotted like watercolour, cirrus and cumulonimbus. The city glimmers like Venice should have, and the canals reflect the sun in glittering ripples. 

Amsterdam is blue and green and yellow and happy, and Ian feels the change in the atmosphere as soon as he steps off the train. The light makes him feel new again, and he and Huber grin at each other as they approach the girls waiting for them near the entrance.

They’re both blonde and have sunny smiles. The one on the left is stylishly dressed, hair perfectly straight and platinum. The one on the right has wavy, bobbed hair the colour of sand and has an old film camera hung around her neck. She’s fiddling with it when they approach, but her eyes light up when she sees them. 

“Huber!” she cries, crushing him in a hug. “Oh my god, it’s been so _long_ , holy _shit_.”

He grins, stepping back, still gripping her by the shoulders. “Elyse! You look so- well, you look the same as you always did, except… you cut your hair! It looks so good!”

“Thank you!” She looks just as sunny as Huber, Ian realizes. Perhaps that’s why they became friends in the first place. Elyse glances at the other girl. “Short hair’s kind of the first rule in the lesbian handbook, just above wearing plaid and jeggings every day, so I thought I’d just, y’know, do it.”

Huber grins. “Well, it’s awesome. This is my, uh-” He stumbles. _Boyfriend? Girlfriend?_ “…Partner,” he decides.

“In crime,” Ian quips, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. Y’know, we robbed a bank in Greece last month, but it wasn’t the most lucrative of jobs.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow. “He’s kidding,” Huber explains, fruitlessly. “ _Anyway_ , Ian, this is Elyse and Barbara. Elyse is my friend from high school.”

“Yup! I’m a photographer, kind of,” Elyse says, taking Ian’s hand without shaking it. “Doing classes at the School of Arts here, and Barb was my model.” She giggles. “First assignment became, well, my first girlfriend.”

Barbara gasps, a grin on her face. “Is that all I am to you? An _assignment?_ Babe. Babe, please.”

“Babe! You’re the best muse ever,” Elyse coos, kissing Barbara chastely on the cheek. “Even if you did assume it was a nude shoot and took off your bra before I’d even said hi.”

“We agreed never again to speak of that day!”

“Too bad, it’s hilarious.”

They leave the train station and make their way to the streets. Ian falls behind; so does Huber.

“I _love_ them,” Ian murmurs into his ear with an astonished, open-mouthed smile. “Holy shit, Huber. We’re going to be best friends with these adorable lesbians.”

 

They stop at the Van Gogh Museum. 

The building is beautiful in the shimmering sun, curved and glassy and modern. A woman is giving out sunflowers from a cart just in front of it. Huber runs ahead and takes one, smiling very wide. 

“Don’t give that fucking flower to me, Huber,” Ian says loftily, “you know how much I hate anything that has a positive connotation.”

“I have a positive connotation. I have lots of positive connotations.”

“Don’t give me _another_ reason to break up with you,” Ian laughs. Upon seeing Huber’s alarmed face, he adds, “Joke, joke! It was a joke. I’m capable of making those sometimes.”

Huber, rolling his eyes, gives the sunflower to Elyse. Elyse, in turn, places it in Barbara’s hair.

The museum isn’t particularly busy; it’s near closing time and most people are out enjoying the sunshine. They buy their tickets and mill around the galleries for a while on their own. Ian takes his notebook out and stares at one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits and thinks and jots down everything. Huber is drawn to the landscapes, all muted greens and indigos and burnt yellows. Barbara watches Elyse from a bench as she peruses the portraits and reads every curatorial comment.

Ian finds Huber staring into _Sunflowers, 1989_ in the permanent collection gallery. He turns to smile at him before looking back at the painting with an expression of wonder.

“He used to eat paint, Van Gogh,” Ian says quietly, taking Huber’s hand. Staring at the broad ochre strokes. “Yellow paint. He thought it would made him happy again.”

“Did it?”

“It poisoned him.”

“Oh.”

“Kind of a ham-fisted metaphor, if you ask me,” says Ian, shaking his head and turning away from it. “Man loves what destroys him in the end.”

Huber keeps staring at the sunflowers. Sienna and cadmium and gold. Beauty wrapped in tragedy wrapped in something so casual as a vase of blooms. He swallows, hard, and turns to look for the others. 

 

* * *

 

**[17:09] Bosman:** ARE YOU IN AMSTERDAM.

**[17:09] Bosman:** Because I swear I just saw you? And Huber? Like, in the street?

**[17:10] Bosman:** Unless there’s another wacky pair comprised of a very happy tall blond guy and a flouncy floppy-haired hipster. Actually, y’know what, it probably wasn’t you. There’s tons of those.

**[17:11] Bosman:** Apologies for the bother! Anyway, Amsterdam is fun. Hope you’re doing good, wherever you are.

**[17:15] Hinck:** …we’re in amsterdam, bossy

**[17:15] Hinck:** pretty sure you saw us, peach  <3

**[17:16] Bosman:** Ugh, don’t flirt with me over text. Also, wow, that’s a little crazy. We all showed up in the same city at the exact same time?

**[17:16] Hinck:** eh. it’s happened before.

**[17:17]** **Bosman:** Right. Hey, let’s meet for dinner somewhere tonight, then. Talk about our wacky adventures.

**[17:18] Hinck:** as long as you’re paying ;)

**[17:18] Bosman:** WHY THE WINKY FACE. WHY. JUST. WHY. 

**[17:19] Hinck:** it’s not flirting if i have a boyfriend already

**[17:19] Bosman:** NO.

**[17:19] Bosman:** NO WAY.

**[17:19] Bosman:** YOU’RE DATING HIM??

**[17:19] Bosman:** IAN. YES, DUDE.

**[17:20] Hinck:** ;)

**[17:23] Bosman:** Well, there’s this really nice place by the canal on Kerkstratt and Amstel that I’ve been meaning to check out. Meet you two there at seven?

**[17:25] Hinck:** well, since you asked so nicely, bossy, i think we can work it into our frankly BURSTING schedules

**[17:25] Hinck:** also our gay friends are gonna join us so book a table for five THANKS BOSSY, LOVE YA!

 

* * *

 

Kyle meets them at Brasserie Ambassade, baby blue hood up, the biggest smile on his face. Huber engulfs him in a hug. Ian spares a cordial wave.

“This is Bossy,” he says to the girls. “He’s disgusting. We love him.”

Elyse takes to him immediately, eyes lit up, already asking quick-fire questions. “So wait, Bossy’s kind of a weird name. Right?”

“It’s a nickname,” Kyle explains with a sigh. “Because my last name is Bosman. My first name is Kyle. I don’t know if they’ve already explained that.”

“Oh, we gave them the full run-down,” Ian says breezily, walking into the restaurant. “They know all your juicy little secrets, Bossy.”

Kyle frowns. “I don’t think I have any secrets at all.”

“ _That’s what he wants you to think,_ ” Ian stage-whispers as they’re seated. Elyse, Barbara and Huber burst out laughing. Kyle rolls his eyes, as he is wont to do.

The conversation starts out light, with Bosman regaling his eccentric travels to Finland, then Sweden, then Denmark. Somehow these stories involve both lego and getting trapped in a sawmill with a kitten. Ian and Huber, in turn, talk about Italy and Switzerland and Germany, the sights and the dramas and the apartment in Frankfurt.

“It’s strange,” Ian says, taking a sip of wine, “how I’m abroad, and yet I feel more at home then ever.”

Elyse laughs; it’s silver in the dusk. “How pretentious.”

“He’s a poet,” Huber drawls. “Everything he goddamn says is pretentious, c’mon.”

“You’re so _mean_ , Hubey.”

“Hubey?”

“Shut up, I’m tipsy,” says Ian. “Don’t hold me accountable for the mush that my brain produces tonight.”

“How do you guys feel,” asks Kyle, without warning, “about bets?”

“Bets, like, sports bets?” Barbara tilts her head. “I’d say I’m pretty impartial.”

“On that first day in Arcachon,” Kyle says with a smirk, “I made a list of bets pertaining to this very trip.” He takes out his phone and starts laughing as he reads over the notes he saved. “One: Huber and Ian will hook up, at some point.”

Ian grins. “Bosman, you are a god amongst men.”

“Two,” Kyle continues, grinning harder now, “we will all meet up again sometime in early August.”

“Holy fuck,” Elyse laughs. “Your brain is… the best.”

“Three. Uh. Hm.”

“What is it?” asks Huber, attempting to lean over Kyle’s shoulder to read the bet. 

He pulls the phone away, shaking his head. “Bet three,” he mutters, sounding so monotone it’s almost bitter. “I will not get a date on this trip.”

“Oof, harsh!”

“No, it’s funny,” Kyle says, a smile sneaking onto his face. “In Sweden a girl asked me out and I figured out I was aromantic. And asexual, though I already knew that, I guess. My brain is so _good_ sometimes. Yes!”

Huber just shakes his head in amazement. “You’re goddamn ridiculous, Bosman.”

 

They leave the restaurant as close as if they’d been friends for years. It’s only natural that Kyle should stay with them. They fit so perfectly together.

It’s no question.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Barbara and Elyse’s apartment is rather large.

The thing is, Huber sort of falls in love with Amsterdam. He joins Barbara as a model for the university’s summer photography courses- apparently his face is pleasingly angular and shadows fall in interesting ways across his features. It is strange, to be sought after, but not unwelcome. He’s making some money, anyway, enough to the point where he isn’t a financial burden on the girls, and it’s interesting work. And Amsterdam is gorgeous and exciting and strange and yellow and green and so, so _perfect_ for him.

The thing is, Kyle is head over heels for the city as well. He gets a job with Elyse working at a cafe on campus and starts to learn Dutch. There is something so fascinating about everything going on in Amsterdam and he feels constantly challenged to learn new things. It seems like a perfect fit- extraordinary chaos and the order to fight it. And settling down gives him time to play Tetris in the evenings. And he has friends for the first time in his life, and it feels like a home away from home.

And the thing is, Ian gets antsy. _Way_ antsy.

 

Halfway through August, three weeks into their stay, he disappears. 

 

It starts with toast. 

It always starts with toast, though- or it should. Every morning, Huber makes Ian a piece of toast, bread the barest hint of golden brown, with boysenberry jam and a single scrape of butter. On the morning of the twenty-third of August, he does just that, whistling the tune of a folk song from his childhood. He walks casually to Ian’s room- it’s meant to be an office for the girls but Ian has turned it into a _room_ somehow, with an air mattress stuffed into the space (though it absolutely should not fit if the laws of physics are anything to be believed), pens and paper scattered across the desk- and knocks twice on the door.

There’s no answer. Huber shrugs to himself; it’s not uncommon for Ian to sleep late. After waiting a few more moments, he nudges the door open.

“Ian? Ian, hey, you awake? Ian- _Ian?_ ”

The bed is empty. The desk chair is empty. The office is empty. Ian’s phone is still on the desk. 

Huber bites his lip. _He’s with the others, or he’s on a rooftop writing again, or he’s lost track of time in a museum, or he’s on a train out of here with no regrets and he’s running again-_

He shakes the thought from his head. Ian’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s only toast.

It’s only toast.

 

Huber spends the day playing video games alone in the living room and glancing at the front door every thirty seconds, hoping for a glimpse of floppy hair or brightly-coloured jeans. None come, though, until the late afternoon, when the sun streams orange through the curtains and Barbara returns from the farmer’s market laden with grocery bags. 

“You seen Ian anywhere?” Huber asks without any real greeting. “Wasn’t in his room this morning, but he left his phone.”

Barbara frowns and drops the bags on the kitchen counter. “No, I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“Hm.” Huber sighs. “I’m just worried he ran off, or something.”

“I’m sure he’s just… off doing… _Ian_ things,” Barbara muses. “Remember that time he went out to a nightclub and came back high at two in the afternoon the next day singing _Defying Gravity_ at the top of his lungs? And he was fine! Uh, after sleeping for sixteen hours. But… he was fine after that. He’ll be alright. He’ll be back tonight.” 

Huber turns away, worrying his lip. “Yeah.”

“Hey,” Barbara adds, putting her hand on his shoulder and looking him straight in the eye. “He’s gonna be okay. Now promise me you won’t blow things out of proportion, alright?”

He exhales slowly. “I promise.”

 

Four hours later, this task is proving to be rather difficult. They’re sitting at the dining room table all staring at Ian’s empty seat and Huber is kind of panicking. 

Okay, ‘kind of’ is a bit of an understatement. If you can even be _‘kind of’_ on the edge of a panic attack.

“His clothes are all still in the drawers,” Kyle mutters. “His phone’s here. His pack’s gone, but he takes that everywhere with him anyway. He left the sleeping bag, though, and a couple books. And his wallet’s gone, too. It doesn’t make sense.” He tuts and looks at Huber, who’s breathing heavily. “Hey. Huber. Why would he have left? What reasons does he have? Family? Anything?”

“No,” he replies, “no, no fucking way would he have gone back to his family.”

Kyle rubs his temples. “Alright, then, we have no leads. To be perfectly honest,” he drops his voice to a murmur, “he’s either on a bender, or on a plane.”

“This is bullshit,” says Huber simply. He shoves his plate away, food uneaten, and leaves the others to their discussion.

He goes back to Ian’s room, again rifling through drawers he’s already checked three times over. Still the same clothes. Still the same things, pens and books on the desk, phone stubbornly not turning on. He picks up _Poems to Whisper_ and glumly rifles through it.

He stops, though, on a discoloured page that’s sticking halfway out, and he realizes it’s handwritten. 

 

 

 

> **tulle**
> 
> i.h.
> 
>  
> 
> TELL ME I AM SOFT
> 
> TELL ME I AM BREAKABLE PLEASE THIS
> 
> BODY IS PULSE-PINK AND LIMITED PLEASE THIS
> 
> BODY IS NOT MINE PLEASE IT DOESN’T
> 
> MATCH IT DOESN’T MATCH IT DOESN’T
> 
>  
> 
> TO BREATHE YOUR NAME AND COUGH IT OUT,
> 
> THAT IS HEARTBREAK
> 
> THAT IS HEARTBEAT
> 
> THAT IS FULL-BODY BLUSH AND BLOOD BRUISES AND
> 
> MAYBE YOU WERE RIGHT, MAYBE
> 
> I SHOULDN’T OVERTHINK IT, MAYBE
> 
> YOU’LL LOVE ME BECAUSE I AM ME BUT WHAT IF I AM
> 
> NOT HIM? WHAT IF I WAS
> 
> HER?
> 
>  
> 
> SOME MONSTER HIDDEN IN FINGERS TOO SOFT TO BE
> 
> USEFUL AND I THINK I WANT TO MATTER I THINK 
> 
> ALL I WANT IS TO MATTER
> 
> ALL I WANT IS THIRTY-SIX HEADLAND LANE AND THE HOUSE
> 
> WITH THE CREEPING VINES AND THE YELLOW
> 
> FENCE AND ALL I WANT IS TO BE SEVEN AND SMILING AGAIN
> 
>  
> 
> AND AFTER ALL THIS TIME I’M STILL SCARED TO 
> 
> LAUGH. MAYBE IF I WASN’T TAUGHT TO FEAR
> 
> SMILING. MAYBE IF SMILING DIDN’T STAIN MY TEETH 
> 
> BLACK, MAYBE THEN I WOULD GRIN EASY,
> 
> MAYBE THEN IT WOULD ALL BE SIMPLE,
> 
>  
> 
> so tell me i am soft.
> 
> tell me i am breakable. please. this
> 
> body is pulse-pink
> 
> and limited.

 

A hot tear rolls off the tip of Huber’s nose and onto the page, smudging the barely-legible blue ink.

He jumps as Elyse shouts from the living room. “HUBER? HEY, YOU GOTTA SEE THIS.”

Folding the paper up and sticking it in his pocket, he races over to where Elyse and Barbara are standing over Kyle, who’s sitting at Barbara’s desktop computer looking bleaker than usual.

“What’s going on?” he demands, more forcefully than intended. “Do you- do you know-?”

Kyle shakes his head. “Internet history, god, of course it was the internet history.” He tilts the screen so Huber can see. “Flight details. Paris to Chicago, direct. He- he lives in Chicago, right?”

Huber nods, not believing his ears. He reads over the ticket receipt and swallows his last hopes. “What day is the flight- do you- do you think we could-”

“What, catch up to him?” Barbara finishes, biting her lip. “Huber, I don’t know. If he left yesterday…”

Kyle scrolls down. “The flight- oh, god. Uh, the flight is _tomorrow_.” A burbling, shaky laugh escapes his lips. “Tomorrow at _nine thirty in the morning_ , what the _hell_ , Ian. And Paris? What’s in _Paris?_ Why not just get the plane from here? It doesn’t add up.”

“The Eiffel Tower,” Elyse blurts out, and everyone stares at her in surprise. “He told me about it a few days ago. Said he always… wanted to see it. Just in passing. I didn’t think…”

Huber’s heart drops to his toes. “We have to go,” he says, quiet. “We have to. I- I have to. I mean,” he stumbles, he looks at his friends’ worried faces and almost breaks, “you guys don’t have to come. I can go on my own. It’s fine. You can stay here and I can…” He trails off. He’s not sure exactly _what_ he intends to do when- if he finds Ian. Convince him to stay in Amsterdam, where he’s obviously unhappy? Take him home to Los Angeles? Keep going, forever and ever, on and on until they run out of cities?

Elyse smiles with sad eyes. “Of course we’ll come with you, Huber, you big idiot. Of course we’ll help.”

“Did you really expect us to just sit here?” Barbara laughs. “Come the fuck on, man. We got this. _You_ got this. We’ll find him”

Huber swallows his fears. He’ll be fine. As long as he has his friends, he’ll be fine. 

And so will Ian.

He has to be.

 

* * *

 

**PARIS**

To arrive in Paris at eight, they take the train from Amsterdam at four in the morning, bleary-eyed yet buzzed on an emotional cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. Huber’s sort of unbearable to be around at the beginning, flinging hypotheticals and fears and hopes and nightmares. He’s rambling about possibilities, asking if Ian hates him, ignoring everyone’s assurances, when finally Kyle snaps and tells him to stop talking.

The whole train ride takes three and a half hours, but it feels more like decades. Kyle is making lists, Barbara is tapping her fingers, Elyse is looking out the window and Huber… Huber is reading poetry.

He brought _Poems to Whisper_ , because of course he did, and he’s skimmed through every single verse in the book by now but he keeps getting drawn back to _Elm_. He can hear Ian reading it to him, and suddenly, he’s on a rooftop in Milan watching stars and airplanes glimmer in sync, drinking flat beer and wishing.

But he’s still wishing. He’s never enough for Ian, is he? The thought plagues him. Ian will never really stay, will he? Will he?

Holland rushes by in a wash of pale green under the dusty pink sunrise, dotted with lush forests and fjords and windmills like strange scarecrows in the distance. Like warnings. Over time the landscape bleeds into lavender fields and green vineyards. The sun rises and stains the skies orange, then baby blue. They’re all too upset to enjoy the weather. The day should be storming and cold, according to the laws of pathetic fallacy, but the air is stubbornly clear.

Paris springs up around them, finally, finally, old architecture and new architecture and Huber sucks in a breath and lets it rattle, terrified, in his chest. 

_Now or never._

 

They get off the train and flag down a taxi. Barbara does the talking, she’s the only one that’s still kind of rational at this point and she knows more French than Elyse does.

“It’s not fair,” Elyse mutters. “I got an A in eleventh grade French.”

“French Immersion program, _chienne_.”

“Okay, um, uncalled for.”

The ride is silent, but for Barbara attempting to make some conversation with the driver, who clearly wants nothing to do with it. When the airport appears in the distance, Huber grabs Kyle’s wrist and squeezes, hard.

“I’m scared,” he says. “I’m so fucking scared, Bosman.”

Kyle has no words. He stutters, for a moment, eyes wide and worried, but he can’t think of anything to say that would help. They arrive at the international terminal. Huber’s stomach is lurching. His tongue tastes like blood, but he doesn’t remember biting it.

They make their way to the Departure Hall, all searching, all waiting. They stop and sit down at a Starbucks near the entrance and train their eyes on the doors. The seconds tick away. 8:15. 8:25. 8:30, and Huber’s beginning to think they’re too late. That Ian left a breadcrumb trail to lead them on a wild goose chase across Europe, ending with… this. With nothing, no clues, no warnings. Just an empty airport and broken hearts. 

And then Barbara swears under her breath and stands up. “Guys…” She points shakily at a side door on the very edge of the hall. 

And there he is. There he is, Ian Hinck, pack hanging off one shoulder, rubbing his eyes.There’s no fanfare. No lightning. Just a message over the PA saying _last call_ _for Flight AHK124 to Istanbul; paging all passengers on Flight AHK124, this is your last call for boarding, please make your way to Gate 23 as soon as possible, thank you._

Huber’s entirely silent. He just motions to the others to stay while he leaves the Starbucks and starts running. 

 

Ian sees Huber almost immediately and nearly breaks down crying in the middle of the Departure Hall.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to find him, it doesn’t make sense, he wasn’t supposed to care enough to track him down. He almost turns away and runs to baggage check but there’s something in Huber’s eyes that makes him stop dead in his tracks.

They stop in the middle of the hall, just standing there, people walking past them. “Hi,” Huber starts, then cringes. 

Ian doesn’t really know what to say. “How…?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” says Huber, voice uncharacteristically bitter, “but what the _hell_ , Ian? Are you kidding me? No warning, no _‘hey, I’m unhappy here’_ , god, _nothing_ except some- some fucking internet history and a poem?” 

“I was- wait, internet history, are you serious? Huber, I was-”

“No!” Huber interrupts. “Do you know how worried I was about you? Even before you ran, you were acting all off and I was so worried. And you just up and left! Without a goddamn word, Ian, you left us and- I thought you’d gone and died, or something. Do you fucking know how shitty we all felt?”

“I had to be alone,” Ian says, very calm. “For a while. There’s so much- there’s so much my brain has to work through, I just, I didn’t know if I could stay there any longer.”

“You didn’t have to go all the way to _Paris_ ,” says Huber, managing a sad, small laugh. 

Ian looks down. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“You shouldn’t have left!” Huber exclaims, the words more like aftershocks than earthquakes. “You shouldn’t have- wait. You _do_ know you can trust us, right? You know we’re all here for you, right?”

Ian’s face resembles a lost puppy’s. “Yeah. I know.” A breath rips through his throat. “I know, it’s just- I got scared.”

The word catches Huber off-guard. “What?”

“I got… scared. Of you all.” Ian closes his eyes. “The settling. You got fucking jobs, Huber! Kept talking about how much you loved that goddamn city and I got _scared_. And then I started thinking, overthinking fucking everything and it got worse and I had to- I had to run.”

“You didn’t have to run-”

“Yes, I did!”

“Why?”

Ian’s thinking too fast now, words spilling oily out of trembling lips, and some light in him snaps. “I’m depressed, Huber. I’m fucking depressed and I’m _traumatized_ and, and I don’t know if I can ever really fix myself and maybe I have a bit of a problem with homes and families and maybe there’s a _reason_ I don’t trust people that say they love me and maybe, just, just, just _maybe_ I’m running because I know that if I stop you’ll have time to learn to leave me.” Deep breaths. Choking sob. “I left because I didn’t want you to do it first.”

The lines in Huber’s face soften. He takes Ian’s cheek in his palm and smiles, or tries to at least. “I would _never_.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ian steps back. His lip curls. “Don’t you think I know it’s irrational? Because I do, and I _know_ it’s fine, and it’s fine and I know that you love me but my brain doesn’t fucking _work_ right and I’m _broken_ and I know you are too and I thought, I thought it would be different this time and, and I guess I never learned my lesson, and I love you and, and, and I’m _sorry_.” An airplane takes off above them and drowns out the last few words, so Ian repeats them. “I’m sorry, Huber. I don’t think I can do it.”

“Do what?” Huber looks crushed. 

“Stay with you.”

The plane is still roaring overhead.

“What?”

“I can’t do it,” Ian murmurs. “I- I can’t fucking, fucking deal with it, I have to be alone, I don’t think I can trust anyone that says they love me, even if they really do love me, I just, I don’t want to be let down again. I don’t want to let anyone down. You guys are acting like you’re my family and I just _can’t_. Not again.”

Huber takes Ian’s face in his palms. His voice is husky from trying not to cry, and failing. “Listen to me- hey, hey, listen. _Listen_. I love you and will keep loving you no matter what. No matter _what_ , Ian. I’ll love you when you’re happy and I’ll love you when you’re sad, when you’re breaking down, I swear to every stupid god that I’ll be there. I’d chase you across this whole damn world, you know that? You listen to me, Ian Hinck, I’ll love you ‘till I fucking die. Girl or guy or _whoever_ you wanna be, I am in love with you. I swear it.”

Ian’s crying, he’s crying now and god, everyone’s fucking looking at them but he doesn’t care because Huber loves him and he loves Huber and he kisses him, chastely, terrified and broken and healing, he kisses him and for a second, the earthquakes stop.

“I’m sorry,” is all Ian can really say at this point, and he leans his forehead against Huber’s, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Huber, I’m so fucking sorry, I love you I love you I love you.”

“I know,” says Huber, hugging him, nearly crushing him, “I love you too, you don’t have to run anymore, you’re safe you’re safe you’re safe.”

Ian sobs without meaning to. It sounds like a beaten dog. “I was stupid, this was stupid, please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” Huber says in a whisper, “who said I was mad? You’re- you’re justified in this, Ian, I just want you to know that we’re not like your family.” He smiles crookedly. “We’re going to be here for you no matter what. No matter where you wanna go, just as long as you tell us. I’d follow you anywhere. Alright?”

Ian nods.

“You ready to go over to the others now?” Huber asks, looking over his shoulder. Elyse, Kyle and Barbara are looking at them from the Starbucks with tense expressions. 

“Yeah, I think so.” Ian sticks his hands in his jacket pockets. “Fuck, I feel bad. I feel like shit. I saw the Eiffel Tower yesterday and went to the top and I felt… nothing. I didn’t feel anything. It’s like it didn’t even matter, because it was just me and a city that didn’t care.”

“We can go again today,” Huber proposes, steering him towards the Starbucks. “We can go again tomorrow, and the next day, until you finally realize how amazing it is.” He lowers his voice. “Plus, I really wanna go, too.”

Ian shoves him playfully before getting tackled in a hug by Elyse. “Oh my god, oh my _god_ , Ian, holy shit, Ian, are you okay?”

He steps away with an easy smile. “Yeah, yeah, I- I’m good now.” He looks at Bosman and Barbara. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“As long as you’re alright,” says Barbara softly. Kyle nods, solemn. 

Ian refunds his plane ticket and they all hug once they’re out of the airport and Ian never explains why he left and he and Huber hold hands as they walk towards the Eiffel Tower. It’s crowded because it’s late summer and the weather is gorgeous and it feels like an ending, school starts up again soon and tourists are trying to tick everything off their bucket list and the five of them jam into the elevator amongst a billion other people like them that want to see the city from up high. They reach the top and Kyle hangs out in the gift shop because he’s scared of heights, but the other four link arms on the upper platform, nine hundred feet above the ground, and watch Paris spread underneath them.

Ian feels something jerk his heart back into place. It isn’t the view but it’s the feeling of Huber’s hand in his, and Elyse’s arm under his elbow, and Barbara’s knowing smile and Kyle shouting from the gift shop that he’s found the perfect stupid souvenir and- and they’re a family, a real family, not like in Chicago, not same-name same-blood, but bright-eye and soft-heart. Sweet-sigh and touching hands and smiling, and laughing, and Paris blurs as Ian starts to cry, not out of fear but out of love. Relief. Spilling. 

Huber squeezes his palm.

_Family family family family family-_

“So,” he says, staring outwards. “Where to next?”

  
****

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and that’s it! that’s the end of a lovely, lovely adventure. getting to work on this story has been an absolute pleasure, i adore these kids and getting to play around in their world has been so much fun. more ua stuff to come! thanks for reading, everyone. hope you liked it! what was your favourite city? your favourite part? leave a comment or just say hi! you can alternatively hit me up on tumblr at finalbosman, and twitter at @saltwaterrayne! have a good day! <3


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